


Shall We Dance?

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Friends to more, M/M, Tango, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a few days’ downtime in Buenos Aires, Arthur and Eames discover some truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblscrabbl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/gifts).



> Inspired by music, I started wishing for stories in which Arthur and Eames dance the tango, and mentioned this to scribblscrabbl. We bewailed the fact that there were all too few, and then she fixed it by writing a wonderful tango!fic, [Abrazo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5210798), and gifting it to me. Go read it if you haven't already.
> 
> But I couldn't get the idea out of my head, so I'd written one too.  
> Here, scribblscrabbl, is my tango!fic.
> 
> I have been helped, coached and cheered on by the wonderful beta work of [chasingriver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver), who also helped me with my first story. Thank you for brilliant support and ideas, and for how much fun it's been!

When Eames tracks him down, Arthur is sitting at the side of the tango hall dance floor, gazing raptly at the dancers, plaintive music washing around him.

They finished the job yesterday and the others have left, but Arthur had muttered something about wanting a few days' downtime, and why not here in Buenos Aires? 

Eames hadn't said he was also staying, hadn't really known he would. He hadn't seen Arthur since they left their work space. So when he got a text from Arthur saying "You still here? Come join me", he had no idea where he was. 

Good thing Arthur had left the GPS on his phone turned on after the job ended. Unlike him, now Eames thought about it. It made tracking him down easier at least. _But, my God, Arthur, where the hell have you got to?_

He is all the way on the other side of the city. And not the good side, either.

Finally Eames finds the tango hall, down a tatty side street, next to a small grocery. There's a booth out front where an elderly man with only one arm is selling lottery tickets. The sound of an accordion drifts out of the open door.

It takes a while for his eyes to adjust from the glare of the street, but Eames finally sees Arthur at a table on the far side of the dance floor, glass sweating in front of him. He weaves his way round, avoiding the outstretched legs of the mostly male crowd, stepping past chairs with jackets draped over the backs. Squinting against the smoke rising from cigarettes held between lips, left lying in ashtrays.

He hasn't even really looked at the dancers yet, focused on Arthur, who hasn't seen him coming.

"Darling! Fancy finding you here," he says lightly as he sits down at Arthur's tiny table.

"Huh, Eames? Why’re you here?" Arthur looks over, apparently puzzled.

"You texted me?" 

"Did I? Huh ..." says Arthur vaguely. His eyes are back on the dance floor.

Eames glances over. And sees what is holding Arthur's attention. The couple performing to the sad strains of the accordion are both men.

They are alone in the middle of the floor. Their moves are languid, not like the stylized steps and choppy turns Eames has seen previously, _where? films_ , he supposes. They don't seem to be performing, for all that they have every eye in the place on them. They seem wrapped in each other, in the music, which _Jesus, this is a sad, sad tune_ , thinks Eames.

_Should Arthur really be sitting here, obviously more than half drunk in the middle of a hot afternoon, drifting in a haze of misery music?_

_Off the job, he's always been quiet, melancholy, turned in on his own thoughts, ever since Mal ... But, hell, Arthur can make his own choices._

"What are you drinking, darling?" Eames asks, looking round to catch a waiter's eye as the tune comes to an end. 

The couple on the floor seem to shake themselves slightly. Acknowledge the applause, desultory but not unkind, and walk off to a table on the other side of the floor. Arthur sighs and finally looks Eames in the eye. "What? Oh ... Fernet con cola."

“How very Argentinian of you,” Eames says. “I suppose I should give it a try.”

A new couple walk to the center of the floor. The music starts again, a more assertive, less tragic tune. They strike a pose, clasp hands and begin the steps. 

Arthur's gaze is fully on them, but Eames watches the dancers only as they move behind Arthur. Dipping past his shoulder. Round his head. Swooping down the line of his nose, outlined by the mellow lighting.

Arthur's mouth is slightly parted, his eyes bright, darting from one dancer to the other, from their feet, executing a complicated series of steps, to their hands, their hold switching from one to the other, back to their faces, as they turn and maneuver, fixed upon each other.

It's an intense focus. Every bit as intense as Arthur's. Or as Eames's.

The steps of this dance are flashier than the previous couple's, matching the more dramatic music. They're more obviously performing for the crowd, who seem more animated. As the music resolves, dies away, their bows are more flamboyant and the applause noisier.

The waiter, having hung back while the dancers were twirling, brings Eames his cocktail. Arthur turns to him.

"I've never seen this before. Men dancing together like this."

"Really, Arthur, never? Never been to a club?"

"No, I mean ... Like this." He shrugs in frustration, apparently unable to articulate what he's feeling.  
A new couple walk onto the floor. A man and a woman. Arthur glances at them. Turns back to Eames. "Like this, in the middle of the afternoon, in an ordinary place like this."

He gestures round the hall, which is indeed ordinary. Small tables crowded by the small dance floor, tatty posters peeling from the walls. Many of the people at the tables are older. No one is dressed up, ordinary shirts and trousers, jackets slung over chairs, sleeves rolled up. Cheap cigarettes lying on tables. There don't even seem to be couples, just groups of men and some women, watching the dancers, not casting covert glances at the crowd, like you'd see in a club. 

Finally, after several more couples have taken the floor, a more general move begins. It seems the performances have ended and now is the time for everyone to join in.

"Arthur. Darling. Would you like to ...?" Eames asks.

"What? me, dance? with you?" Arthur's frown appears between his eyes.

"Got your eye on someone else then?" Eames asks, lightly.

"No, no ... No!" says Arthur. "But I don't know the steps."

"Well, I don't either, darling. Don't think it'll matter though, do you? We'll muddle through, I imagine. Come, let me twirl you round the floor!"

Arthur gives him a long, considering look, eyes not quite focused. 

"Well, ok," he says, giving in. "If you think we can."

"I've got to put the lessons my parents paid for at that ridiculous school to use sometime, haven't I?" says Eames, and is rewarded with the surprised snort of laughter he'd hoped for.

He thinks he's understood some of the steps, the holds, from watching the performers. It's easy for him to copy. It is, after all, what he does best. Watching and learning, mimicking. Sinking into a role, giving a performance.

They stand and he holds out his hand to Arthur, who looks down, startled, before taking it and following Eames onto the floor. They weave their way through the couples waiting for the music, across to the other side, next to the far wall. There are no tables on this side of the hall, just a door. To the loo, he supposes.

Eames takes up a stance he has seen some of the men adopt, holds out his arms in a dramatic way. Arthur stands hesitant, until the music starts. Not a tragedy, Eames is grateful to hear. A more upbeat number.

Arthur steps forward then. Takes his hand. Eames places his other hand on the small of Arthur's back. And is rewarded with a tremor that runs up to Arthur's shoulders, which he, ridiculously enough, squares. He gets a pinched look of concentration. 

They'd better start moving — even here on the far edge of the crowd of couples, they are in danger of being tripped over and cursed if they don't join in. So Eames pulls Arthur closer, nudging him into the first steps.

Arthur, although he's not what Eames would call a natural at this, gets the idea and moves in the right direction. Eames glances over his shoulder and risks a turn. Arthur stumbles slightly, bumps into Eames's chest.

"Woah there, darling! Easy," he soothes, righting them.

Arthur looks up from his feet and their eyes meet, properly meet. And then it seems a lot easier. Arthur loses the crease between his eyes, relaxes into Eames's arms, allows himself to be led, turned, twirled and dipped.

They have their eyes locked on each other.

Eames wonders why he's never noticed that Arthur's dark eyes are not actually black, but rather a complicated range of darkest browns. Like an espresso in a tiny cafe.

Finally (all too soon), the tune ends and the dancers applaud and turn back to their tables, retrieving jackets and cigarettes. The afternoon is evidently over. 

Arthur is frozen on the dance floor though. His hand tugs at Eames's as he turns to go. He tips his head down. Eames has forgotten as he led them through the dance that Arthur is actually taller. Flicks his eyes down to Eames's mouth, back to his eyes.

Eames nods, parts his lips slightly, and receives Arthur's kiss as he leans in, sighing.

As they walk out into the early dusk, Eames slips his hand into his pocket. Brushes his fingertip along the grooved edge of his poker chip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is the tune the first couple dance to, ‘Oblivion’, by Astor Piazzolla](http://youtu.be/Ya--_G0nC5k)
> 
> [This is the second couple’s more upbeat music, ‘Libertango’, again by Piazzolla](http://youtu.be/GVXRjOp6mFo)
> 
> Fernet con cola is the Argentine national cocktail, a combo of Coke with the bitter digestif Fernet Branca. Sounds disgusting but is apparently quite the thing. I think Arthur might quite like its bitterness.
> 
> The musical inspiration was the album _Hommage a Piazzolla_ , by Gidon Kremer. It's gorgeous.
> 
> [And here is a YouTube video of two men dancing the tango that I like](http://youtu.be/TZEckpXniWo).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Arthur saw things. And beyond.

Arthur and Eames had been together six months. 

Six months since Eames had come to find Arthur in that Buenos Aires tango hall.

Six months since Eames had fully seen Arthur, finally, after all those jobs together, all the flirting and the sarcasm. Since Arthur had _allowed_ Eames to see him.

Six months since Eames had answered Arthur's hopeful text of "Come join me" not with a question, "Where are you?" but with all his considerable ingenuity, so that Arthur had looked up and seen Eames standing there, outlined by the light over the dance floor, and been too flustered to look at him for more than a minute.

Six months since Eames had stood, and held out his had and said: "Arthur. Darling. Would you like to ...?" And Arthur's heart had stopped for a moment.

Six months since Eames had held out his arms and welcomed Arthur into them and twirled them gravely round the crowded floor and tilted up his chin and parted his lips when Arthur had tipped his face down and sighed.

Six months since they had walked out of that tango hall, Eames with his hand casually in his pocket and Arthur scarcely able to believe that this was truly happening, until he was able to take out his die and roll it and convince himself that, yes, it all appeared to be really, truly happening. (And later, Eames had confessed his own amazed disbelief.)

Six months of covert glances across makeshift workspaces. Six months of fingertips touching on PASIV cannulas. Six months of puzzled looks from co-workers.

It had been three months since Eames had said to Arthur, one morning in a hotel room in Istanbul, the Süleymaniye mosque visible through the window and glasses of pomegranate juice beading on the room service tray, "Darling, come home with me when this is done." And Arthur had had to swallow painfully around the lump in his throat and blink and turn his head away until he could manage, "I thought you'd never ask". Which had made Eames laugh delightedly and pull Arthur down and kiss him and kiss him.

It had been three months since Eames had opened the door to his little house in the old part of Mombasa, and stepped aside and glanced at Arthur and said diffidently, "Well, it's not much, but it's home for now if you'll have it, darling". And Arthur had looked around the room, with its cool tiled floor and shuttered windows, with its sofas draped with cheerful, striped _kikois_ , with its wide bed pushed into the corner, and turned and met Eames's upturned mouth and laughed at him, delighted.

So, it had been six months of Arthur and Eames, when Eames had turned to him in their shared hotel room in Tokyo and said, "Arthur, darling, shall we dance?" And handed him an envelope.

Arthur had been too surprised to react, at first. But Eames had nudged him and said, "Don't you want to see?" And Arthur had carefully peeled open the flap and drawn out the square of card inside and read: "Saito Dance Studio. Lessons for singles and couples. Learn to tango with us!"

"So, shall we dance, darling?" Eames had repeated, laughing delightedly when Arthur had answered him. And when they broke apart, Eames had said, "That's a yes, then, is it?"

"Yes, yes, yes! of course! But why here? Why now, Eames? in Tokyo?" 

"Well," Eames had said, "It's been six months."

And Arthur had counted rapidly in his head (not that he'd needed to count, really) and realized that of course, and he had been keeping track, but Eames, _Eames_ had done something about it. So Arthur had launched himself at Eames again, not caring about his just-tied tie and his just-combed hair and Eames had staggered slightly, but recovered and held Arthur and twirled him, humming slightly under his breath. And Arthur had been amazed to recognize one of the tunes from the tango hall. And he'd smiled, because it was the tune they'd danced to, inexpertly, six months ago.

**********

The studio is in Asakusa, a quieter part of the city, far from the dazzling lights and rushing crowds clogging the crosswalks in Ginza. It's up a couple of flights of stairs and they're met by an elegant, bowing man. "I am Saito. You must be Mr Eames, Mr Arthur?" 

Eames returns his bow with one of his own. "I'm Eames. This is Arthur. Thank you for accommodating us at such short notice, Saito-san." He cocks an eyebrow at Arthur, who is feeling a little overwhelmed and a bit shy, but manages " _Hajimemashite_ , Saito-san".

"Now," says Saito, "I will demonstrate some steps. The Argentine tango is a sensual dance, but it is a dance of power, a battle, some might say. It can be a subtle war for dominance!" 

He turns to an iPod dock in the corner of the room, and the sobbing tones of an accordion fill the small, mirrored studio. He takes up a stance as if he holds a partner in his arms, and begins a complicated series of steps, his upper body held still, his feet executing kicks and flicks, a turn.

Arthur is transported back to the tango hall, with its haze of cigarettes, its scent of smoke and aftershave and sweat. He can taste the bitter sweetness of the Fernet con cola, feel the cool glass in his hand. And he can sense the frisson that had skated down his spine as he watched the couples, so many men! He recalls how he had texted Eames, not even sure he was still in the city, but suddenly desperate to share his shattering realization — about himself and about Eames as well. He glances at Eames, needing to catch his eye and share it all over again. Eames feels his eyes and looks over, his smile revealing his crooked tooth, his eyes dancing.

"Oh darling! Shall we dance?"

Saito stops the music. "Now it is your turn, Mr Eames, Mr Arthur. Who will lead? Ah, I think Mr Eames, to begin with."

They stand and he positions them, close, but not pressed together, Eames's hand high on Arthur's back, Arthur's at Eames's waist, their other hands clasped. Arthur looks down at his feet.

Saito claps, sharply. "Never look down! Always up, into your partner's eyes. Tango is a conversation, a debate, sometimes an argument! Focus!"

So Arthur looks into Eames's eyes, sparkling. At his lovely mouth, pressed tight, twitching. "We can do conversation. We can do debate, and even argument, I assure you, Saito-san," he says. And Eames laughs, charmed.

Saito starts the music again and steps over to take Arthur's elbow. "The leader must lean into the partner, press his advantage, move him as he desires." He tugs on Arthur, pressing Eames forward with his other hand. "The partner yields, steps back, but now he fights, he is assertive! He signals his intent with a little kick! Mr Arthur, a little kick, please!" 

And Arthur tries the sort of kicking step he remembers from the hall. Eames catches on, so fast! He matches the kick, leans into Arthur, steps him back again ... And turns them, his eyes a challenge, his teeth catching his bottom lip. 

Arthur can't help himself, he tries another quick step, turns his head away, looks back at Eames. Eames is grinning broadly now, all the way to his eyes and beyond.

Behind them Saito sighs, claps sharply again. "Tango is not to be taken lightly, gentlemen!"

Eames raises an eyebrow, bites his lip again and leans more firmly into Arthur, who steps back, tries another flourish and catches his breath.

"Now we will try changing the lead," Saito says. "A tango of two men, or two women, does not need to have one leading the whole dance. It is a dance of seduction and power. Who will win in the end?"

Eames leans close to Arthur's ear. "Yes, darling, who will win in the end?" he murmurs.

"Oh Mr Eames, shall we see?" Arthur laughs back, softly.

Saito steps back and positions them with Arthur's hand on Eames's back, their opposite hands clasped. "Mr Arthur, you must lead the dance now." He restarts the music, claps sharply and gives Arthur a little push.

Arthur stumbles slightly, catches himself, steps forward with more confidence and bears down on Eames, forcing him back. Eames quirks an eyebrow, smiles and performs his own cheeky little kicking step.

And then they are off. Arthur turns them, brings his knee up, wraps his calf around Eames's leg, turns them again.

Eames laughs openly, causing Saito to shake his head, but it’s clear he is trying to hide a smile himself.

As the music winds towards its coda, Eames drops Arthur's hand, swaps their hold and regains dominance.

"Who has won in the end, darling?" he breathes into Arthur's ear.

"I think we both have, don't you, Mr Eames?" Arthur replies.

Eames turns to Saito. "One lesson isn't enough, but we won't be in the city much longer, may we return tomorrow evening?" 

"But of course! I don't have many clients. In fact, it's my hobby. I came here to learn, but the teacher was elderly and wanted to retire. I bought the studio!"

**********

When Arthur and Eames have been together nine months, Arthur books them a trip to Buenos Aires. They linger in cafes on wide, European-seeming boulevards, where Eames drinks espresso and Arthur asks for Fernet con cola, earning raised eyebrows from amused waiters.

On their second afternoon they make their way to the wrong side of the city, to the tango hall in the tatty side street, next to the little grocery, with the one-armed lottery ticket seller still in his little booth out front. They enter, blinking at the gloom and cigarette haze, and weave their way around the dance floor, stepping over the outstretched legs of patrons, around chairs draped with jackets.

They settle at one of the last free tables in time to applaud the couple who have just finished. Arthur watches to pick up how couples volunteer, how they choose their desired music. When he is satisfied he understands, he stands and makes his way over to put their names up.

Finally, he leans over and says to Eames, under cover of applause, "We're next". Eames stands, holds out his hand and says, "Arthur. Darling. Would you like to ...?"

Arthur steps forward, takes Eames's hand and together they walk onto the floor. He cedes the lead to Eames, who grins delightedly and places his large, warm hand on Arthur's back, clasping his other hand and pulling him close. The music begins and Eames's smile turns even warmer. It is the same tune they'd first danced to, all those many months before. 

After three months of practice, of stolen moments in the ballrooms of a succession of hotels in cities all over the world, after hours, when they have sneaked down, picked a lock and twirled and dipped in solitude, they are in perfect sync, their eyes locked, or breaking away where the dance dictates, the lead changing smoothly several times. When the music ends, they bow and the applause is warm, warmer perhaps than for the local couples.

They walk out, hand in hand, into the late afternoon sunshine. Neither has his hand in a pocket, feeling for a totem.

Twelve months from that first tango afternoon, Arthur and Eames buy an apartment in New York. They do not have many stipulations, only that it must have a hardwood floor. Often when they return from a distant city, with the satisfaction of a job done, they spend hours twirling, dipping, passing the lead smoothly from one to the other, through many tango tunes, some heartbreakingly sad, but always, they return at the end to _Duo de Amor_ , the tune they first danced to in a Buenos Aires tango hall, with peeling posters on the walls.

And when they finish, Eames often murmurs to Arthur, "Who has won in the end, darling?" 

"I think we both have, don't you, Mr Eames?" Arthur always replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is the music that Arthur and Eames first dance to, and which becomes their song: ‘Duo de Amor’, also by Astor Piazzolla](http://youtu.be/vMBhrN_I3kg)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to prufrockings, for looking over the Japanese for me.


End file.
